


Dead and Buried

by Hominid



Series: Headwaters [3]
Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Bester isn't so bad - or is he?, Betrayal, Fascists R Us, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Minor Character Death, Slight divergence from canon (after S4E8), Telepathy, Trust, Whatever happened to Ms Winters?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22164565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hominid/pseuds/Hominid
Summary: Bester will never forgive the Corps for the death of his lover, Carolyn Sanderson. He’s struck up an uneasy alliance with Ivanova based on shared experiences of grief and telepathy – and a matched ability to blackmail each other to destruction.  But what happens when he’s not on Babylon 5?This story runs from the end of Shiva, soon after S4E8 The Illusion of Truth, to just before S4E14 Moments of Transition. Close to canon apart from Carolyn’s death after S4E8 and an early arrival from season 5. It will make more sense if you read Shiva first, but you can also jump in here and figure it out as you go.No major warnings, but you know anything with Bester in it tends to get disturbing. This story is complete at 5 chapters.  There is a sequel in the pipeline, but I write slowly and I'm going to be busy for a while with other things.
Relationships: Alfred Bester/Carolyn Sanderson, Susan Ivanova/Talia Winters
Series: Headwaters [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1095261
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	1. Detours and Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> Canonical cast  
> Alfred Bester: psi cop  
> Susan Ivanova: second-in-command, Babylon 5  
> Talia Winters: commercial telepath, missing  
> Carolyn Sanderson: rogue telepath, deceased  
> Byron Gordon: rogue telepath
> 
> Semi-canonical cast  
> Iris Rzhevskaya: Bester’s aide seen in “Race Through Dark Places” and “Dust” (played by Judy Levitt)  
> Frank Drake: Bester’s boss, from “The Corps is Mother the Corps is Father” (played by Mike Genovese)  
> Douglas Ashwell: psi cop conspiring with Earth senator and Morden in “Matters of Honor” (played by Andrew Walker)  
> Melina Somers: glimpsed in “Divided Loyaltes”  
> Kat, a smuggler: seen in “Racing Mars”
> 
> Invented cast  
> Mae Coe: P6 intern with Psi Corps Retrieval and Re-education division  
> Ken Oko: a mundane  
> Karla Wolf: head of Psi Corps’ Department Sigma

_A darkness carried in the heart cannot be cured by moving the body from one place to another. -- Minbari saying_

**Hyperspace**

“Al? Is something wrong?”

Bester blinked himself awake, surface-scanned his aide.

“No more than usual, Iris. It’s nice to be back with the good guys.”

It _was_ good to be away from mundanes and skimming through hyperspace towards the rest of Black Omega. But Iris was right: he couldn’t shake the feeling he was traveling in the wrong direction. Susan Ivanova, with her primitive rituals, secret telepathy, and shared grief, had made him feel human for the first time since Carolyn.

“But?”

“I’ll need to get back to Babylon 5 as soon as I can find out exactly what Sigma did with a Ms. Talia Winters.”

“Winters? The commercial teep who was watching Sheridan? Don’t Sigma wipe what’s left after a sleeper activates?”

“Ms. Winters’ sleeper was activated by a third party before she’d achieved her objective. I’m hoping they kept her memories accessible for future analysis.”

“You want me to see if I can get you access?”

“You read my mind.”

“You think I have a death wish? I’ll get onto Sigma as soon as we dock with the mothership.”

“I appreciate your efficiency. As ever.”

Iris’ unspoken question hung in the air between them. He could choose to ignore it, but they’d both know. He cast permission to ask.

<Sorry.> It was less a word than a sense of regret. “Your REM aura felt like grief. Were you close to Winters?”

“No. Met her a couple of times, scanned her once. That’s it.”

_< Sure. No emotional connection whatever. No psychic overlay, no nightmares.>_

With Susan, he'd dreamed a blend of Talia and Carolyn inside a Shadow ship. She’d sliced their skull in half because he couldn’t bring himself to kill her.

“Indirectly then.”

The words were out of his mouth before it registered that the mindvoice he'd replied to hadn’t come from Iris.

“Oh? You got bad news on Babylon 5?”

“Not about Carolyn.”

_< I thought you trusted Iris.>_

<I don’t trust anyone to know you were on B5.>

_< Good point. They might wonder if you’ve been betraying the Corps. Well done, by the way. You surprised me.>_

A Thunderbolt cockpit had no room for visitors but his psi insisted Carolyn was standing in the space also occupied by the back of Iris’ chair.

_< You have to elaborate on “indirectly,” you know.>_

They’d turned life-support down to gain flight time and she had no helmet. You didn’t need oxygen once you were --

<I know.> “I was in the mind of someone who cares a lot about Talia -- about Ms. Winters. Some of their grief must have resonated with mine.”

_< Almost true. Well done.> _

If he could reach out and touch that smile... With his blocks tight, Iris would think he was stretching.

His fingers bumped the resin seat back. Of course.

“So, you need intel on Winters for leverage on this person who cares about her.”

“Correct, though vastly oversimplified.”

Iris had her back to him, but his psi saw her grin as she replied, “I prefer to call it a time-saving executive summary of a complex situation. Supplying you with which is, in fact, in my job description.”

“Please don't say it’s performance appraisal time already!”

“Nothing as grim as that, but you do have a new assignment that I don’t think you’ll be happy about. I didn’t want to break it to you until you’d had a sleep.”

Had his exhaustion been that obvious? A surface scan confirmed it had. Damn.

_< Well that explains me, then. Hallucinations are a classic symptom of sleep deprivation.>_

“The Corps wants you on Mars asap.”

“Ah. Good,” he said, not bothering to project sincerity. “And what will I be doing on Mars?”

“Frank Drake needs you back at Ret and Ree.” (A flash of concern there. Retrieval and Re-education on Mars had included Carolyn.)

_< Syria Planum Telepath Re-education Center. You can revisit the happy scene of our time together.>_

<SPTRC was closed down after they took you. Then Earthgov classified the hell out of it. I intend to revisit one day, but I’m not expecting it to be easy. Or happy.>

“Belated clean-up of the blockade mess,” Iris continued, blessedly unaware of his internal dialogue. “Specifically the unexpected safe return to Mars of a squadron of Earthforce pilots who know they were ambushed by Earth starfuries and saved by B5 ones. The story was all over Dome One before it occurred to anyone to try to stop it. Some of the pilots recognized the Omega insignia, which has spawned some wild conspiracy theories.”

_< Oooh… Let me guess. Telepaths working with Nightwatch? Psi Corps in league with aliens? Selling their own kind for spare parts?>_

He bit his tongue before he blurted out something he might regret.

“There was talk of putting the whole planet on lockdown,” Iris continued. “But Earth needs the freight, so it’s memory elision followed by level 12 blocks for the surviving pilots and their contacts. And their secondary contacts.”

“I see.”

They shared a moment of indignation at the squandering of scare P12 powers.

“The Ret and Ree people on Mars got landed with it, but of course most of Drake’s P12s have been seconded to Earth. The few he has left at Mars HQ have been pulling triple shifts for days, which is why he filed a request for you to assist as soon as available.”

“No rest for the wicked.”

He made it sound light, but there was a kind of karma in being sent to clean up the mess from his own betrayal.

“Drake says you can have guest quarters at MHQ if you’re not in the mood for domestic bliss right now.”

“Good. Take him up on that please.”

“Your dedication to duty is exemplary.”

“You have no idea.”

He couldn’t face Alisha yet. In fact, he planned on staying away from Syria Planum altogether unless that turned out to be where Sigma had put what was left of Talia Winters. But he could manage a voice call and gift delivery to shore up the morale-boosting illusion that the Corps’ genetic pairings produced happy couples.

_< Like anyone over the age of five believes that! But while you’re sending gifts, don’t forget who just saved your life and sanity.>_

_< Sanity? I’m having a conversation with a ghost.> _“Oh, Iris, there is one other thing please. I filled out a requisition form, but it needs to be approved at Major level.”

“It won’t be easy getting anyone to sign off funds. Earthgov is squeezing us hard.”

“A few hundred credits to maintain good relations with Babylon 5 command staff. If need be, I can provide that much from my Investigations allocation. But I need authorization to send it past the blockade.”

“You want to have a fruit basket delivered to a blacklisted rebel organization that the president wants permanently shut down?”

“Breaking away from Earth was Sheridan’s idea. His second, Commander Ivanova, is old-style military, loyal to the chain of command, but she has private reservations. If anything should happen to Sheridan, I believe she could be persuaded to bring Babylon 5 back under Earth control. I’ve put a lot of effort into winning her trust. Mention that when you request the authorization.”

“OK.”

“And nothing so perishable as a fruit basket. The way to Commander Ivanova’s heart is coffee. She’s running low. A kilo of quality beans should work wonders.”

“I’ll get on it while I run the search for Ms. Winters.”

“Thank you.”

“If Sigma are holding her at the Planum facility, you won’t have to travel far.”

“Well there’s a happy thought.”

“And we can use your time on Mars to confirm whether Drake is working for Ashwell and the aliens. If he is, we’ll put a stop to it.”

“I have a plan or two ready and waiting.”

“I thought you might. And we’ll find your Carolyn. The Corps wouldn’t just lose someone with her psi rating. We’ll figure out where they transferred her. We’ll get her back.”

He wrapped his blocks tight around a rose on a casket, a line of caskets floating towards a star.

“Thank you, Iris.” A breath to steady his voice. “Let’s start with Drake and Winters.”

He’d transferred to the relative comfort of a Mothership but was still headed in the wrong direction. Red dust, reduced gravity, endlessly bickering mundanes, and canned dome air had been the backdrop to his marriage for so long that they could evoke the dull ache of failure even without Alisha’s presence. And now Carolyn’s absence.

_< I’m right here!>_

<You’re… not real.>

_< Oh? Then what about your boss, you know, the fat one who pretends to be so jolly but he’s scared of -- >_

<Frank Drake.>

_< Drake! You used to say he was good company. You said old Frank might be too mind-burned for fieldwork, but he wasn’t ready to settle for being the mundanes’ good little guard dog. You helped him get Clark’s sweaty little fingers onto the levers of power.>_

<I did.>

_< But you, my love, were in it to secure a future for all our kind. Drake just wanted to benefit a few high-psi individuals and he didn’t care who he sold out.>_

<You can’t know that. I didn’t know that myself until after they took you.>

_< Nonsense! I saw it in your mind. You just weren’t ready to admit it before.>_

The ghost had a point.

<It didn’t seem important. Frank’s goals were broadly compatible with mine until the arrival of the Shadows tipped the balance.>

_< Drake sold us to aliens. Just because someone never knew their parents and was named out of an encyclopedia, that doesn’t mean they’re on your side.>_

<If he knew what they were doing with the teeps they took, I’ll make him pay. I know it can’t bring you back, but I promise you he’ll pay.>

_< Be careful. He’s a strong P12, he outranks you, and he has some very powerful allies.>_

<I know. But I have one big advantage: Frank still thinks we’re friends.>

That made her laugh. She had a wicked sense of humor.

**Department Sigma Field Laboratory Unit, Syria Planum, Mars**

There were two faces on the cell wall, one happy, one sad. Unlike everything else in her life, they were very accommodating. Melina could chat with the one that matched her mood, or both if she wanted more company. When she wanted to be left alone, they’d blend back into a meaningless splatter of stains on paint and allow her solitude, if you didn’t count the monitor cam.

She’d missed them while she was away for the birth and had felt a surge of relief at finding them still here, not painted over, on her return. Funny to think that she’d once been dumb enough to believe the Corps would reward her for giving up her body and her right to exist. Her rage when she’d learned the truth was what had spattered the wall with food stains and brought the faces into existence.

It was all Talia’s fault. Goody-two-shoes, loyal little Talia had been given Melina’s life from age thirteen, and all she’d achieved was to blow up the mission. Now Talia was gone and Melina had been dumped here like a box of classified data crystals in a dusty archive, her mind full of someone else’s memories, too incomplete to be useful, too potentially useful to wipe. They let her have a vid feed for entertainment, and meals. She didn’t throw the trays across the room any more. Life was more bearable when she did what she was told.

She ate the food, she had the baby, she displayed Talia’s memories on demand. Once or twice, while she was tidying them away, she’d thought she glimpsed a shadow of Talia, curled in a corner of her mind, watching Melina live in their body as she’d once been watched by her. She knew it was just a projection, formed from loneliness and a life of being the hidden watcher. She’d felt Talia’s personality collapse. Nothing coherent could survive that. Anyway, Melina was a P8. Talia, the implanted synthetic, had only been a P5. She’d never be able to hide from Melina the way that Melina had so long hidden from her.

**Babylon 5**

Ivanova set down her tray and gulped her caff, wishing she’d started the day with a real coffee in her quarters. Then it might have occurred to her that the man loitering outside the canteen was the one who’d stared at her in the transport tube yesterday. Uncaffeinated, she hadn’t twigged until he pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, fixing her with the same odd stare.

“I’m sorry. I’m…”

“Working. Yes, I can see. Books, manuals, directives, regulations. The geometries that circumscribe your waking life draw narrower and narrower until nothing fits inside them anymore. My name is Byron. It’s important that you meet me in Brown Sector 3 in two hours. Come alone.”

“I’m sorry. Do I look like I’ve lost my mind?”

<My people are coming.>

His mindvoice sounded strong. Now she was properly paying attention, she could see how he’d been blocking her from sensing his talent. Shit.

“Didn’t anyone tell you I hate telepaths?”

“They did, but in fact it’s the Corps that you hate. Which gives us a great deal in common.”

“We have _nothing_ in common.”

He was doing something with his mind, not to her but to the rest of the room.

“Merely keeping our meeting private. We don’t want anyone reporting a rogue telepath, do we?”

Did he mean her? No. That was paranoia. This guy was just some random rogue. Bester said even Harriman Grey hadn’t spotted her at first, and he was a P10.

“OK, Mr. Byron, you got yourself a meeting. But not in Brown sector, and not in person. Find a terminal and call my office during consultation hours. I’ll see that it gets put through. Say you’re a smuggler -- sorry, an unauthorized trader -- they get priority access just now.”

“But…”

“No buts. Whatever this is about, I’ll listen to it via the Babcom. But only if you now go away and stay the hell away. I’m due at C&C and I need to prepare myself with a few minutes silent meditation on the smell, taste, and effect of a real cup of coffee, which this sadly is not.”

He was still staring at her.

“Scram!”

He scrammed.

**Psi Corps Mars HQ, Dome One**

Frank Drake hit the floor rolling into a defensive crouch, combat blocks up, reaching to locate the mind behind the threat. His returning senses revealed no attack, no bombardment. The minds around him were either asleep or engaged in routine tasks, the shrilling alarm nothing more than the trill of his unanswered terminal. He mopped the sweat from his brow, pulled himself together.

“Sorry for waking you, Mr. Drake, sir, but you have an urgent call from Earthdome. The Alien Liaison Primary, in person. He said to hurry, sir.”

He circled fingertips on his temples failing to ward off a pounding headache. He’d been hoping for a straight 6 hours until Doug had decided otherwise.

“Give me 60 seconds, then put him through. Thank you Ms…” What was this anxious P6’s name again? Memory drew a blank and he couldn’t scan her via the screen.

The intern nodded and ended the call. Douglas Ashwell’s face now filled his view. Drake couldn’t sense the mind through interplanetary comms, but he didn’t need his psi to know Ashwell was in a foul mood. Well that made two of them, but Drake was smart enough not to let it show.

“Good to see you, Doug,” he lied. “Sorry you had to wait. I was just snatching a few hours’ sleep. We’ve got several hundred level 12 blocks still to put in and only four P12s available -- only three until Al got here last night.”

Do the math, Doug. We need more people, or more sensible orders: your choice.

“I do appreciate you’re busy, Frank, but cheer up. The task I have for you will give you a change from psi work. Maybe you’ll find it refreshing.”

And maybe you’ll lead a mission to the Shadow homeworld to ask what happened to them.

“I need you to check Mr. Bester’s monitor footage for me. The security systems flagged him accessing restricted information. I can’t pull Mars monitor footage from here without initiating a formal investigation. I don’t want to involve Loyalty and Morale unless there’s good reason, which I’m sure there won’t be.”

“Of course not, Doug! Level 12s are always accessing restricted information. Al’s as trustworthy as they come.”

“He was looking at records for Syria Planum TRC, the Re-education Center we had to close. The one we told him was no further concern of his. The one that’s now an Earthgov Shadow tech development center that Mr. Bester definitely doesn’t need to know about.”

“Ah. Doug, this isn’t about Shadows and it isn’t a threat. One of the inmates at SPTRC was coming on to Al for favors. You know his marriage is a train-wreck, right?”

Doug nodded. Everyone knew about Al’s marriage.

“Al fell pretty hard for this blip. I warned you about it at the time.”

“As I recall, you recommended transferring her to a different TRC before the operation finalized. But we’d committed to deliver a specific number of units and you didn’t provide a substitute. Anyway, he can’t be permitted to go digging around.”

“Sure. We’ll stop that, one way or another. But does it need to be right now? Al might be a pain sometimes, but he’d never harm the Family. Just look at his conditioning score.”

“This is extremely sensitive information. We can’t risk him bringing it to anyone else’s attention.”

“Really? Everyone knows blips die in TRCs. How hard can it be to explain a bunch of them dying at once? Attempted break-out? Plague? Mindquake?”

Ashwell’s mouth tightened and he ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them before he replied.

“Frank, what if I told you they might _not_ be dead? What if someone intercepted the transport before the Shadows could collect?”

“Well that _would_ be a game changer,” he said, careful to keep the shock out of his face and voice.

So now the Shadows thought the Corps had cheated them? Was _that_ why they’d gone silent?

“22:18, your time. Start when he checks in to your guest quarters and watch until he ceases activity. I mean _all_ of it.”

“Sure. As you say, at least it’ll be a break from psi work.”

And maybe a clue to what the hell was going on back home with Ashwell, Clark and the Shadows.

Drake ran the monitor footage at triple speed. Ashwell had told him to watch everything but hadn’t specified how many hours of sleep he had to miss. On the screen, Al scurried into his quarters in uniform, out briefly, then back again in civvies, fresh from a vibe shower. He zipped through some cardio in a speeded-up blur, then to the workstation. Once there, the odd jerky movement as he tipped back his caff or reached for a crystal was the only sign that time was speeded up.

The footage from Al’s room cam filled one half of Drake’s screen, with the corresponding activity on Al’s workstation taking the other. The monitor system automatically detected key words, especially names, and used them to provide a ribbon display of tags along the bottom. The transactions zipping by on Al’s screen looked to be routine stuff. He’d put a call through to Sigma, sent a message to the Blackjack team, spoken with the psi cop in charge of the Ace project they’d nested inside Clark’s Blackjack, and left a message for his wife. Drake bet himself he could guess the content: Darling, I’m back at the MHQ but I’m too busy to come home. Maybe coffee sometime. Sure enough, according to the tag ribbon, Al’s topics so far had been, “Sigma, collaboration, experience, Babylon 5, unusual activity, Mr. Clean (Ace’s new sleeper agent), Mr. White (the target), Commander Ivanova, Alisha Ross, Dome One, triple shifts, tea.” Heh. Close enough.

He’d almost reached the timestamp for the flag. Drake slowed the footage to normal speed, sat back and sipped his caff. In the corner of the screen, Al finished his own caff, pushed the cup away, glanced at the monitor cam, drummed his fingers on the desk. He picked up his ID wallet from beside the card reader and shuffled through the contents. Drake spotted a third credit chip in addition to the ones for Psi Corps official expenses and Al’s personal spending allowance. It was technically a rule breach, but everyone did it.

Now Al was using his security clearance to access the records for the Syria Planum Telepath Re-education Center. He pored over lists of inmates and staff until July 4th 2260\. From that date, the SPTRC became Earthforce-IPX Advanced Weaponry Experimental Research Station, and Al’s Corps clearance wasn’t worth diddly squat. He browsed through the public domain info, little more than some shots of the opening ceremony, Earthforce and IPX logos, and a press release about the importance of studying captured alien weapons to make sure Earth could protect itself. Sighing, he returned to the final register of inmates, the one for July 3rd. Sure enough, he picked out the entry for a Carolyn Sanderson. Too smart for her own good, that one, and much too smart for poor Al. Not for the first time, Drake wished the matchmakers at the breeding program had done a better job. Al was a great psi cop, but his taste for women with a rebellious streak was a flaw. Add extreme loneliness to the mix and it became a critical vulnerability.

Al sent a copy of Sanderson’s mugshot to his wallet. Then he tidied everything away, flopped down on the bed and dimmed the lights. He took out the mugshot, kissed it and set it on the beside shelf. Then he lay back on the pillow and called for full dark. Drake zipped through the rest of the darkened footage at high speed but nothing changed. Al slumbered like Sleeping Beauty, little suspecting that his sentimental antics had attracted the dragon of Alien Liaison or dragged poor old Frank Drake from his bed to play fairy godmother. Well, this time, he’d help out. He told the workstation to record a message for Mr. Ashwell, marked private.

“Hi Doug, I ran the check you asked for. Can you believe he used his clearance just to get a picture of that blip he was humping? Like I said, Al can be a fool, but he has no sinister intent. He’d never risk doing something as dumb as this in his own quarters with the monitor running if he had the slightest idea of the forces involved. As we hoped, there’s no need to involve Loyalty and Morale. In fact, if we go in heavy, we only risk tipping him –- and them -- off that we have something to hide. Let me take care of Al while you worry about the bigger picture. I’ll make sure he loses interest.”

That wasn’t enough. Doug must be trying to heal the rift with the Shadows, and that meant assembling a new consignment as quickly as possible. 

“And if there’s anything else I can do, you know my people are used to tracking clandestines. I could help you acquire more… supplies. Or the Haiti TRC is very prone to epidemics. Incidentally, we have a couple of Black Omega pilots here on Mars who just became something of a liability. I mention it in case you had some use for them.”

Now all he had to do was catch up with Al and deflect him without arousing suspicion. But how to convince him that Sanderson was dead without revealing the Corps’ part in her ending? He thought he had an idea, but he was damn well going to get some sleep first.


	2. Loyalty and Morale

_In which Alfred Bester is a credit to the Psi Corps._

**Psi Corps Mars HQ, Dome One**

Bester wasn’t surprised to find Drake had taken the morning off. Trauma residue would be hard to contain while working in the minds of pilots fresh from a firefight, pilots who’d killed teeps, or at least watched them die.

_< Your teeps, Al. I know what that cost you.>_

<I’d do it all again for a chance to get you back. No regrets.>

_< Except it didn’t work, and now I’m dead.>_

Well, yes. Those regrets.

_< I think it’s called guilt.>_

Perhaps that was what he’d been trying to allay when he’d taken advantage of Drake’s absence to send Mae, the intern, out for donuts and coffee on his discretionary spending account. Overwork had made the Mars team inefficient. He could take on some of their allocations as well as his own.

The ghost didn’t cast any words, but she let him see exactly what she thought of that.

<Why should I listen to you?> he asked. <You’re a hallucination.>

_< Exactly! You’re exhibiting symptoms of extreme stress and exhaustion. Get some rest.>_

He wasn’t about to let his own hallucination outsmart him.

<I’m fine. Routine elision isn’t exactly demanding and I can send myself straight to deep sleep when I do have some downtime.>

He could. But staying asleep was harder. His dreams were full of alien machines and the TRC. Anyway, if exhaustion was causing the hallucinations, he’d prefer not to sleep that off.

The donuts certainly raised team morale. While they were still grinning and licking sugar off their fingers, he quizzed them about the work. Drake was running the operation sensibly, given the parameters set by the D.A.s. If the mundanes consented to be scanned, the low-Ps would locate and tag the memories. Then the high-psis could quickly wipe the tagged areas, slap a block in, cover their tracks with an off-the-peg scenario, and hand them back for checking and processing by the low-Ps. Those who withheld consent went straight to a teep with the psi rating to fix that.

“Your process is great,” he told them. “It’s just workload that’s a problem. You won’t help the Corps by burning yourselves out. Take the evening. Get some shut-eye. I’m fresh enough to pick up the slack.”

It was alarming how grateful they’d been. Drake shouldn’t be pushing them this hard. The old Drake had known better. But the old Drake had a full team. Now, Drake, Cho, and Rodriguez were the only P12s permanently assigned to Mars Ret and Ree – because they were too damaged for full active duty. As for the low-Ps, they shouldn’t be required to do non-con work more than a few hours per week; assigning them to Ret and Ree was unfair to all concerned. Mae, the P6 intern stood waiting quietly so as not to break his concentration while he worked, but he could sense the tension in her. He slipped the last block into place and gave her a smile.

Her low-psi mindvoice was quiet. Another P6 would probably miss it unless there was skin contact. But he heard.

<Please, sir, could we talk privately?>

<Sure,> he cast back as he took a data crystal from her. <Now?>

<Monitors?>

She couldn’t detect electronics. They’d put her in a black uniform to impress the mundanes, but she was more prisoner than cop.

“Not in here,” he told her. “Monitors are to reassure the mundanes, not remind them of the damage we do. That makes the interrogation suites a good bet for getting privacy indoors. Talk away. Nobody’s listening.”

She hesitated, considering the odds of a joke or trap. Smart kid. She deserved a little help.

“Private quarters and offices are monitored. Shared spaces too, but the cheap audio in the monitors can’t cope with background noise, especially if you mumble and maybe obscure your mouth a bit. On Earth, open spaces are mostly blind spots unless there’s something like a statue to attach the gear. And of course, it stops at our perimeter because covert surveillance of mundanes is forbidden on Earth -- though I wouldn’t rely on that lately.”

Her hesitation crystallized into trust. “Thank you,” she said. “I wanted to tell you I was on comms last night and I took a call for Mr. Drake from Mr. Ashwell. He said it was very urgent and I had to wake him up.”

“So that’s why Frank’s sleeping in!” He tried to sound unconcerned. Succeeded.

“I didn’t mean to listen. I was just checking the connection. But I heard Mr. Ashwell say you’d been flagged and ask Mr. Drake to check your monitor footage. I shut it off after that, but I thought you should know. Will you be OK, sir?”

He was touched. She was genuinely distressed at the thought of him getting into trouble.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “The flag system throws a lot of false positives. I’d never do anything that wouldn’t check out fine when the footage is reviewed.”

“Of course not! I didn’t…” Her voice tailed off.

“I do know there’s a camera in my quarters.”

She smiled, reassured. “Of course. That’s why you’d never…”

“That’s one of many reasons I’d never. Now, I need you to complete the checks on this subject while I go wipe the next batch.”

He tossed the crystal she’d brought him, caught it, and headed off down the corridor, radiating a confidence he wished he could feel.

 _I’d never._ But he had. The memory was a cold, dark knot. He’d searched the TRC records for anything relating to the final weeks of its operation. And now Alien Liaison knew he’d done it.

_< You’re a psi cop. You worked there. You have clearance.>_

<I’m not as invulnerable as I look from the perspective of a detained blip.>

_< I never fell for the omnipotence act. Wasn’t that what you liked about me?>_

<You were smart. You understood things.>

_< You anticipated surveillance and did it anyway.>_

< Honestly, I was mostly hoping it would go unnoticed..>

_< Trusting to blind luck? That doesn’t seem like you, not even maddened by grief.>_

<You’re right. If I’d sold a hundred live telepaths for an alien science project, I’d want to keep tabs on anyone who took an interest. Ashwell’s no fool, so hot surveillance was a possibility. And I do have another line of defense.> He grinned. <You.>

_< Huh?>_

< Everyone knows I let a pretty blip make a fool of me. So let them think I’m making a bigger fool of myself pining, abusing my clearance for a stroll down memory lane and a holo. Your mugshot was the only thing I took in traceable form. There’s nothing in the comms log or monitor footage to suggest a more sinister motive.>

_< As long as they don’t run it through EM to analyze your patterns of focus and memory activity.>_

That was what worried him too.

<I used a few tricks that might mess with the EM readings. But I don’t think they’d bother with all that unless they already suspect me of treachery, and I’m sure they don’t.>

If they did, he was screwed whether he accessed TRC records or not. If they didn’t, the intel he’d gathered would help to hurt them further.

_< I knew you’d have done a full risk-benefit assessment. Probability’s a bitch, but I have confidence in you.>_

<I guess we’ll soon find out.>

She couldn’t touch but she flashed an image of squeezing his arm.

_< It’ll be fine, I bet you.>_

<Yes, it should be.> He pictured taking her in his arms. <Whatever happens, I stand by my assessment. A holo of you is a very significant benefit.>

**Babylon 5**

“Look, I set out our offer already. Sign up or not, the choice is yours. You happen to be my favorite, um, unauthorized trader, but I have to treat everyone fairly and equally. You’re not going to finagle yourself a special deal by coming to my private quarters with gifts.” (Shades of Talia with a bottle of fizz and some glasses. Don’t think about that.) “Anyway, nothing you could possibly offer is more valuable my free time and my privacy.”

“It’s not…” Kat looked sheepish. Surely, she couldn’t be embarrassed? “It’s not from me.”

“Oh?” That Byron had better not be trying bribery.

“Delivery for a special customer. Someone on Earth with authority to send packages through the blockade. Said to deliver to Commander Ivanova in person, no messengers, no witnesses.”

“How do I know it’s not a bomb?”

“Would I be standing here holding it if it hadn’t passed the scans?”

“Wait. With _authority_ to pass the blockade? If this has permission, why employ you?”

“Officially, nothing gets through. Unofficially... you got the right signals encoded and anyone that catches you just lets you go.”

“All the joys of smuggling with none of the risks?”

“Pretty much. Nice work when we can get it.”

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me who this special customer might be?”

“I bet you could convince me!” Kat grinned. Then drooped. “If I knew, which I don’t. But you could try anyway, just to make sure.”

“Thanks. I’ll take your word for it.” She could see the woman wasn’t lying. “Put the package on the counter there and we can both get back to our busy schedules.” She wasn’t going to touch it herself, not until she’d checked it out thoroughly.

**Psi Corps Mars HQ, Dome One**

Drake arrived just as the team were breaking for lunch. He held Al back a moment.

“I’m glad to see you, Al. We were snowed under. I can see you’ve made a difference already.”

“It’s good to be useful.” Al flashed his cheery smile. “But may I ask why we’re putting level 12 blocks into mundanes who used to remember hearing some gossip from someone who heard a rumor that somebody’s friend might have seen something about a firefight?”

“You can ask, Al, but if there’s an answer, it’s above my psi rating.”

Al chuckled. It was a P12 joke. The only people cleared to know more about the Psi Corps than a P12 were, of course, the mundanes. Finding out what they knew was more a matter of opportunity than of clearance.

“I haven’t gotten anything definite, but I’d say presidential paranoia is a strong contender. Looks like our Morgan upset some powerful allies.”

He wouldn’t have said that aloud in his office, but cam coverage in the corridors was almost non-existent, and his psi needed a rest.

“Oh? So that’s what Nagel meant when he told me Clark was rattled.”

Al wasn’t supposed to know about the Shadows. He’d have some suspicions -- you couldn’t keep a secret that big from a good P12 -- but he didn’t seem to have picked up anything specific. That was good.

“If you’d gotten here a couple of days sooner, you could have worked on the pilots who saw your men die. We’re down to just their contacts now. You know more than I do about what happened out there.” He gestured skywards though he had no idea if it matched the real direction of Babylon 5 and Clark’s blockade. “But I know enough to see the gossip we’re wiping is way off target.”

“I noticed. I had one who honestly believed my Black Omega pilots were Minbari in captured starfuries they’ve been storing on their homeworld since the war. Another heard it was Nightwatch using Psi Corps equipment because we’re all in this together. Or was he the one who’d heard it was a telepath coup? Because, of course, when we make our first move, we’ll want to target some half-assed blockade light years from Earth.”

“Clever of us to strike where they least expected it!”

They were in the cafeteria now, and Al switched to mindspeech for the food line.

<Clark is scared of Babylon 5. Now he’s screwed up his plan to eliminate them and he’s even more scared in case that gets out. He’s weak _and_ incompetent.>

<That’s why we put him in charge, isn’t it?>

<Is he in charge?>

It was a good question. But not one Drake cared to answer right now. He reverted to meat-voice and small-talk until they’d loaded their trays. Then, by mutual agreement, they headed for a poorly lit corner away from the monitors, sat down with their backs to the room, radiating an aura of official business that would discourage anyone from joining them.

“Al, I had a call about you from Earth. The wrong kind of call.”

“I had a loyalty scan only a year ago. Please don’t say I’m due another already!”

Drake studied him: face, body language, mind surface, blocks. If Al didn’t know Syria Planum TRC was now a red-hot topic at government level, it was important to keep him that way.

“You got flagged for over-involvement with a blip.”

Al shut his eyes. “Carolyn.”

“Sanderson. Subject 105-A-SL889SP.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“I looked through your file after the call. Listen, Al. It’s one thing when a touch of romance helps integrate a new member into the Corps or gives the breeding program a boost. But if it causes a good psi cop to violate regs, we’ve got a a serious problem. Your involvement with Sanderson should have ended when we closed SPTRC and moved the blips to sites outside your remit.”

“Yes, why was that?”

“You don’t need to know anything about any of it. Look, I understand you wanted a holo to remember her by. I’ll even let you keep it if you promise me that’s the end. Everyone from the President down is on the warpath for the slightest signs of disloyalty, and I can’t always have your back. _Service Before Self_ , remember?”

“I know. It’s just… The Corps wouldn’t simply lose someone of her psi rating. If I could figure out where she’s been transferred --”

“No! Al, I’m ordering you to let this drop. No inquiries, no hopes, no nothing. She’s gone. Is that clear?”

“It’s just hard to accept that she’s suddenly off limits. I thought I was getting through to her.” Al sighed. “We were a triple-A match. Did you know she was pregnant?”

Drake hadn’t known, so the exasperation he flashed on the surface was deep-down real. Bad enough that they’d shipped out a blip who had a psi cop looking out for her, now they’d squandered a probable high-psi child into the bargain.

“The Corps has decided the two of you should never have met. That’s enough for me and it’s enough for you. On top of everything else, the old SPTRC has been taken over by some high-tech weapons outfit. It’s bristling with security.”

“I’ll try to do better, sir.”

Drake knew how that would end, and he’d spent half the morning preparing a fix that would protect Al while neutralizing the threat he posed. Doug should damn well give him a medal for this.

“OK. You’re entitled to the truth. Listen Al, you didn’t hear this from me, but… she’s… dead.”

To his credit, Al held his blocks. Drake was getting nothing off him at all.

“I’m sorry, Al. There was an incident. It was hushed up. Sigma tested something in their Field Lab that set off a mindquake across half the district.”

Still nothing.

“Sanderson didn’t have the training to protect herself. She was killed instantly. I promise you she didn’t suffer.”

“People always say that.” (A flash of anger there.) “Any reason I should believe you?”

That was the cue he’d been waiting for.

“Al, I was there. I barely got my defenses up in time. I felt them die. I saw her body.” He carefully cracked his blocks open to give Al a glimpse. It was truth – had to be – but a titrated dose. He showed Al how he’d watched from behind his own combat shields as her barriers crumbled and her mind shut down in shock. The Surgeons and their tech stayed outside the frame, along with his part in smashing down those barriers.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” Drake murmured, blocks up again to screen the lie. “As you saw, it wasn’t entirely painless, but I can promise it was very quick. I hope knowing brings some closure and helps to put all this behind you.”

“Closure?” Al tightened his blocks and faced Drake, shaken but professional. “Yes. Yes, it does. I know what to do.”

“Good. You’re a damn fine psi cop, Al. Just keep your full attention on the job.”

“I’ll be fully focused, sir. It’s just… Well, the thing is, I may have missed something earlier.”

“Oh?”

“One of the subjects this morning knew the TRC – he delivers kitchen supplies, I think. He had some odd memories associated with that. I left them intact since there was no connection to the blockade incident. Now I’m wondering if maybe it was something we’d want to erase. I’d be grateful if you’d give it a second opinion.”

“Say no more, Al. I’ll take a look right now.”


	3. Going Underground

_Entering another mind is like going caving with ghosts. – Psi Corps text book_

**Psi Corps Mars HQ, Dome One**

“Which one is your subject, Al?”

All the cells were occupied, but at least the number of double-occupancies was falling now.

“I did so many… Let me check the log… Ah! Room 17.” (Al always remembered to call the cells rooms when a mundane was helping with inquiries.) The occupant of 17 was a middle-aged man in the uniform of Utopia Hydroponics.

“Hello again, Mr. Oko,” Bester said as he let them in and locked the door behind them. “This is my supervisor, Mr. Drake. He’s here to confirm that you leave exactly as you came in, and that I scanned only the memories you were good enough to authorize. It won’t take long but I’m afraid we’ll need to restrain you again, just a safety procedure in case of involuntary twitching.”

“Sure. You explained that before, right? No problem.”

Oko sat himself in the chair, all smiles and helpfulness. Drake sent Al his approval.

“As you can see from the log, sir, Mr. Oko was witness to an attempted robbery and kindly agreed to let us examine his memory. I drafted a report, which Mr. Oko has checked and signed. Here.”

He handed Drake a datapad. They had ready-made drafts for nine basic scenarios that could be implanted as memories to account for time spent in a Psi Corps facility. This looked like a version of incident 5.

“Mr. Oko, with your permission, I would like to verify that my colleague here has respected the privacy of your other memories. Please would you fingerprint here if you are happy for me to proceed?”

The elision was neat work, of course. But where was that odd memory Al had asked him to check out?

<Just… _here_.>

Al slipped into his mind, guiding him to a floodlit dirt track… He was standing beside a loader, cold stabbing at the seams of his parka, wondering how long it would take the guards to come and sign off the paperwork. A small door opened in the hardcrete hut at the base of the dome. Oko/Drake ducked his head to step through. As he crossed the threshold, wall became floor and door became trap. Instead of stepping into the mundane’s memories, he fell through layers of dusty Martian soil into the tunnels that honeycombed Syria Planum. He landed badly and was still getting his legs under him when Al swung through the trapdoor, kicking him to the ground in a tight armlock.

They were in the underground lab at the TRC. There was someone else with Al, a woman. Drake’s stomach seemed to drop through the trapdoor a second time. Al had arranged to have the shipment hijacked. He knew she wasn’t dead.

_< No. He knows I am dead.>_

<After what you did to her, it was all she wanted.>

<Al, listen! I lied to make it easier on you, to keep you out of trouble.>

Al’s eyes were cold. But Sanderson’s sparkled with malice.

<It wasn’t my idea, Al. It was Doug and Karla. We had Clark where we wanted him. But Doug brought in a mundane with alien associates.>

<Mr Morden. Big mistake.>

<You knew?>

_< Of course he knew!>_

<How long did it take you to notice that Morden had turned Clark against us?>

<That’s right, he did. Once Morden got to him, all Clark cared about was keeping the Shadows sweet. And all the Shadows wanted was telepaths. Since we control the supply, Doug and Karla saw a way to regain some influence.>

_< You sold psi-sentients for machine parts.>_

< Karla was funneling disloyals out of detention and interrogation, but she couldn’t get the numbers. Doug came to me.>

<And you sold the TRC inmates.>

<I agreed to step up the retrieval program and send them the ones we had no use for, low-level teeps, crazies, die-hard resisters. I never meant to give them the high-value assets. It snowballed. I tried keep her out of it, told them you’d raise hell if she disappeared, but they wouldn’t listen…>

<Neither will I.>

**Babylon 5**

Her kitchen was littered with bits of tech purloined from customs and medlab. The package sat in the middle like a cylindrical Zen monk. It wasn’t explosive, corrosive, pathogenic, or radioactive. It was organic, but not biologically active. It was toxic, but to get a dangerous dose she’d have to ingest all of it at once. Since it was as big as her head, there didn’t seem to be much risk of that occurring by accident.

She took a kitchen knife and pried open one end. That aroma! Coffee! She tipped the packing shell. Out slid a leaf-green bag. _Vietnamese shade-grown Arabica beans_. A whole glorious kilo.

Also a card, embossed silver on bronze: _With Compliments of the Psi Corps. We are Everywhere for Your Convenience_.

The bastard had sent Psi Corps propaganda right into her kitchen on purpose! Probably getting back at her for making him take his badge off. On the back was a handwritten note:

_Wouldn’t want you to run out. Thank you for your assistance. Will update you when I have new information on your inquiry. AB_

She tore the card into tiny pieces which she washed down the drain to be pulped and cleansed in the water reclamation systems. She was about to dump the package into the recycling chute when she caught another whiff. It smelled like _great_ coffee. She inspected it for any trace of Psi Corps contamination, but it was clean. No Psis, no slogans, just text in several languages about mineral-rich mountain soil, biodiverse forest cultivation, complex notes of praline, yadda, yadda yadda…. It could have come from any upmarket grocery store in the European Area.

“This is not Psi Corps coffee,” she reassured the refrigerator. “It’s ok to keep it.” She would save opening the packet until she’d finished the old one, but she held it under her nose and breathed deep. Even through the waxed paper, those volatile aromatics worked their magic. Could it be that Bester was just trying to show some gratitude, discretely letting her know that he hadn’t forgotten his promise to find out what happened to Talia? He lived surrounded by Psi Corps crap day and night so he’d probably never paid attention to the card he’d written on..

Yes, she decided, as she sealed the coffee back into the packing shell to keep it fresh, it really wasn’t so different from when she sent out messages on Earthforce stationery.

**Psi Corps Mars HQ, Dome One**

The rock below Syria Planum was riddled with natural cavities, the imprint of a long-dead river. Mining conglomerates had hollowed them out further and added rat-runs of access shafts and connecting passages, plus a system of blast doors, refuges and air-locks. The Corps had built the dome and the visible parts of the TRC above to take advantage of these below-ground facilities for more covert activities. It was also a perfect, ready-made metaphorical interface for accessing Drake’s psyche.

Bester pushed hard. They fell to the floor, their physical bodies in the interrogation room as well as their psi projections in the tunnels. He smashed a knee on something, but Drake took the worst of the impact. He couldn’t risk turning towards Carolyn, but he could feel her glee. 

The real floor was painfully solid, but the one in their minds was a flimsy metal walkway over a sinkhole, and it had buckled beneath their combined weights. One edge of the panel beneath them bulged free of the lip; a draft of icy air from the darkness below slid through the finger-wide gap. Only Drake’s free arm, flung over the still-solid floor beside them, kept it from opening wider. Bester tried to whack it away, but couldn’t get any force without loosening his lock on the other arm. A petite work boot (very solid, reinforced toe, standard issue for heavy labor) crunched hard into Drake’s elbow, then stamped down on the tilting panel. Bester kicked off with both legs for acceleration and brought his full weight down on Drake’s back.

 _< Seen enough to convince you he did it?> _Carolyn asked as they crashed through the upper layers. _ <Ready to stick him in a Shadow ship until his brain shrivels?>_

<I’m not here to be convinced,> he told her, <or just to punish Frank Drake. We’re going to get Wolf and Ashwell too.>

She liked that.

<I need to get deeper into his memories, down to the combat trauma. I’m going to plant a cascade that will eat his mind like the Machine did yours. He’ll be a telepathic missile locked on to Karla Wolf. >

He could sense Drake’s trauma now, how it had opened a rift in his psyche all the way from the outer layers to the parts Bester needed. It was as he’d imagined: explosions, blood, panic, pain -- war through the senses of a P12. He worked fast. Even these few minutes inside Frank’s nightmares would take time to process out of his own mind. He’d be flinching at slamming doors and cringing from fireworks for days, maybe weeks.

He told Carolyn to stand guard and make sure Frank didn’t come out first. There was little risk of that, but the rift was -- literally -- a nightmarish place, and Carolyn had enough trauma of her own. Maybe later, he’d give some thought to what it said about his own sanity that he was deploying mind-tricks to protect a hallucination--

_Alfred! Look out! >_

< I’m your Major, Al. I’m the Corps.>

Guilt punched him in the gut. Maybe Frank’s fist too. He’d been distracted, stupid. Frank was good.

<The Corps is Mother, the Corps is Father!> Bester’s lips moved to echo the mantra Frank roared into his open mind.

_< No! He sold Corps children for alien weapons. He doesn’t get to claim family!>_

Her fury thawed the ice that held him. He wrapped his own rage around it and flung with all his strength.

For a moment, he was afraid he’d killed Frank outright and wasted all that psi work. But Drake was breathing, and his mind looked intact enough to serve. Bester laid him along the wall, put a pillow under his head, draped a blanket over him.

_< Second thoughts, Alfred? Didn’t like your taste of freedom?!>_

<We need him to wake up grateful, remember?>

_< Good point. But don’t forget how good it felt to fight back.>_

<Ha! Once Drake activates, I’m sure to get called for a scan.>

She was inspecting his work. Bubbles of joy rose as she saw it. _< You turned him into a weapon just like they did to me!> _

<It’s a pity he’ll be too trapped in fugue to know what he’s doing, and Karla Wolf won’t have a chance to know what’s hitting her. You can’t have everything. We won’t be around by then anyway. I set the cascade to lie dormant until something major triggers his combat trauma. With any luck, I won’t even be on Mars.>

_< They’ll blame trauma-related meltdown. Your hands will be clean.>_

<Then I can go after Ashwell myself, maybe Morden too if he’s still around.>

The mundane whimpered, blood running down his face where he’d been struggling against the restraints.

“Don’t worry,” Bester told him. “You’re going to forget this even sooner than I am.”

He’d see to that in a moment. First, he had to throw up.


	4. Vodka and Chocolates

_In which debts are paid and evidence is concealed._

**Psi Corps Mars HQ, Dome One**

Drake blinked and tried to focus. Al was leaning over him, leaking concern. He seemed to be on the floor of… yes, a cell, an interrogation cell at MHQ. There was no bombardment. The war was long over. He pushed himself up onto elbows. “Stop fussing,” he snapped, though it came out as a croak. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.” 

He’d been helping Al with something… The mundane was there, unconscious now, but showing marks of a struggle during the scan. His memories had been nothing to do with the mindquake. Of course not. Drake had made that up. But he’d had other memories. War memories.

Good old Al was cleaning up with his back discreetly turned, but Drake could feel his mental touch hovering. He didn’t feel strong enough to swat it away psionically. Speech would have to do.

“Stop acting the mother hen, will you? Your subject has war memories. I tripped over them. It happens.

Al nodded. He knew why Drake had been shunted to a desk job.

“Truth be told, I think the mindquake brought some of my war stuff back. Seeing the blips die like that…”

Heh. Old and damaged, he might be, but he could still think on his feet.

“Was I right? Had the mundane seen something connected with mindquake?”

“Let’s just say you made a professional assessment of your own limitations and did the right thing asking for an objective second opinion.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Al. This is what comes of getting involved with a blip.”

“I’m sorry, Frank. You’re right: I _have_ been letting things get out of hand.”

“I’ll do my best to get you away from Mars for a while. Easier to get your head together away from the scene of the crime, as it were. In the meantime, no wallowing, no revisiting old haunts, and absolutely no more digging into classified records.”

“Of course.”

“That’s the spirit! I’ll leave you to tidy up here.”

Al was looking tired, but he stood to attention as he replied, “Yes sir!” Then, dropping the formal posture, “I won’t forget what you’ve done. You should take a break now. I can cover your quota.”

It was a good offer. Poor Al would have one hell of a headache, but that might teach him to be more cautious next time some blip batted her eyelashes.

“Frank? There was just _one_ other thing…”

Drake was already halfway through the door. He sighed and turned.

“Do I look like Santa Claus to you?”

“Not in the slightest.” Al paused, squinted. “Although… … If the Corps ever changes its policy on Christmas, you would absolutely be my first choice to go around the nurseries in a beard and a red suit.”

“Alright, Al. You’ve been a good boy -- mostly."

He did owe Al a favor for taking his quota and he needed to ask for another, so it would be good to balance the account.

"Promise you won’t set the medics on me for that hiccup in there?”

“No medics, I promise.”

“Good man. What do you need?”

“Well… You know relations with Babylon 5 have become strained lately?”

“You don’t say! Not after they sided with enemy aliens against our beloved president?”

“The thing is, I need to be able to operate there if I’m to further our beloved president’s beloved Blackjack project.”

“Which you care deeply about because you’ve hijacked it to infiltrate Edgars Industries.”

“Quite. And I can’t do that without access to Babylon 5. I’ve been kissing babies like a politician in election year and I’m making headway with a very promising contact. But I need something to keep me popular between visits.”

“A contact? Haven’t they purged or intimidated anyone sympathetic?”

“I found one.”

Al smiled. His blocks were fully opaque and the color of smugness.

“If it’s some grunt who keeps the restrooms clean…”

“ _Commander_ Susan Ivanova.”

“The Commander Susan Ivanova who throws telepaths out of third-floor windows? Keep clear of the airlocks!”

“It’s true the commander’s unfortunate family history has left her with a not-entirely-irrational dislike of the Corps, but you know hate and love are two sides of a coin. I’ve been giving her the good cop, bad Corps routine, and it’s working.” Al leaned closer, lowered his voice. “Last time we spoke, she was seriously thinking about hitting on me.”

“You little devil!” Drake checked the corridor for underlings and allowed himself a wolf-whistle -- a quiet one because his head still jangled. “And here was I telling you to move on from Sanderson!”

Al gave him a pained look. “Seriously, can you see me with a mundane?”

Drake chuckled. “I’m sure we can count on you to do your duty, distasteful though it may be. How can I further your sordid scheme?”

“She’s Russian. A liter of good vodka and a box of chocolates should be good for an invitation to her quarters. The problem is getting it past the blockade.”

“Problem solved. I’ll put in a request right away.”

He strode off towards his quarters. Al was a good teep. Drake was glad he’d given him this chance to sort himself out.

Bester spoke the usual words, his thoughts far away.

“We’d like to keep you under observation for thirty minutes -- just a routine precaution when someone loses consciousness during a scan. After that, you can carry on as normal, but take things easy and get plenty of sleep. You may find your recollections of the incident rise to the surface more often and more sharply than you might expect. You may experience vivid dreams. We’re grateful for your help. We shouldn’t need to trouble you again, but you’re always welcome to get back to us if you have any questions.”

Mae brought the double-shot caff and hydration drink he’d requested, and sugary tea for the mundane. She flashed him a glyph of herself dropping headache tabs into the drink. He cast heartfelt thanks at her just as his lips were forming fake ones aloud. They shared a psi grin at the coincidence.

The ghost had stayed quiet since she’d helped him with Drake. Out in the corridor, when he was alone again, she sent, _< You’re going to feel terrible later.> _

<Maybe. But we got him.>

 _< We did.> _Her smile lit up the drab space. _ <I never saw you on the attack before. You’re dangerous.>_

<I should hope so. The Corps trained me well.>

 _< They trained you to obey.> _She waved a hand at one of the motivational signs. _ <Can you work around that?>_

<I can manage.> Drake had tripped him badly for a moment there. <With a little help from you.>

_< An admission of need? I’m touched!>_

<The aliens that put in the implants -- you called them Dentists. Drake called them Surgeons. They’re the key to the tech.>

_< Do you think anyone knows their real name?>_

<Delenn said something about Dark Servants, races that worked with the Shadows but stayed around after they left. I think the Minbari know something.>

_< Al…>_

<No.>

He saw the thought before she cast it, knew he didn’t want it.

_< You saw what that tech does. If you find a way to take it out of the others -- >_

<No!>

_< I don’t think there’ll be much left of them.>_

It couldn’t be that hopeless. Anna Sheridan had come back.

_< Do you think Sheridan could have nuked her if she’d still been the woman he loved?>_

<How would he know if her mind was the same? He’s a mundane. >

_< They’re stunted, not stupid. He’d need longer than you, but he’d know the difference.>_

<But…> He cast around for something to pin a hope on. <You're free of it now.>

_< Oh, Alfred.>_

She put her arms round him, but he couldn’t feel them at all.

_< You forgot, didn’t you? I’m not really here.>_

He had to squeeze his eyelids shut for a moment.

<I’ll make them pay. All of them. I promise. I promise.>

**Psi Corps Intelligence Center, Syria Planum, Mars**

Iris glanced down at the treadmill display -- only 3K. She ran harder, the tempo of the music in her earbuds adjusting to the faster pace.

At about 4K, a flute melody fluttered free of the thumping beat. It wasn’t coming from her earbuds. Mozart’s Tamino charming the wild beasts. Al’s call-sign. The gym was too full of electronics to know for sure if there were monitor cams, so she kept running, turned down the workout music and hummed along to Al’s Mozart until her psi told her he was running beside her.

<That was easy!> He stopped his music at the end of a phrase. <How are things?>

<Not bad. I sent the vodka and chocs with your note, and I got some data on your sleeper teep. Her name is Melina Somers and she’s a P8. Born 2233 to mundanes in Ohio. Manifested at age five and assigned to a cadre in Hobart. Didn’t settle. Ran away aged thirteen, responded poorly to reeducation. Earmarked for breeding, but Sigma were recruiting for the sleeper program and she was persuaded to volunteer.>

She glanced at Al, sent a psi shudder, but his blocks stayed blank. She hadn’t really expected him to understand.

<In ‘49, Talia Winters enrolls at Junior Academy, supposedly from Vienna. She’s fluent in German and English – no trace of Australian accent. Good marks, impeccable loyalty.>

<They implanted a P5 synthetic, put her in control, and made the P8 original the sleeper. I see the logic, but it’s a risk. Given the right opportunity, say a trauma or breakdown, the original could potentially overpower the synth, and then you’ve got an unstable disloyal in the driving seat.>

<I couldn’t get her psych reports, so you’ll have to scan her to find out. Physically, she’s fit and in the custody of Sigma. There’s a steady trail of reproductive health checks from the start of 2260 right up to last month. She had a baby in April, healthy boy with the genetics for a decent psi level, assigned to the creche in Geneva. The birth was on Earth, but now she’s back here, just down the road, in fact, under that compound Sigma calls a field laboratory.>

<Nice work, Iris. What else?>

She flashed reluctance. He wasn’t going to like this.

<Mr Calm went into the Edgars compound on the monorail. His tracker was pinging us every 50 hours but it stuck at the same location for four days, then it went silent. Accidental deactivation is almost impossible, and it was charged by his breathing, so... >

<So they killed him without finding it, and it powered down quietly in his corpse. Or they found it and destroyed it. Either way, that’s another chance gone.>

She could feel his anger through their connection, and the fear that lurked below.

<It gets worse. Edgars Industries booked a commercial P5 called Mr. Kavana to monitor a “commercially sensitive meeting”. Their security log shows him checking out of their compound at 11.38, all fine and dandy. His corpse was dumped in a service duct no more than two hours later.>

<Let me guess. Someone drained his credit chip and police are logging it as a mugging?>

< We tried to tell them it was a hate crime, but you know how that goes. It looks like Kavana saw through the suppression and told them Calm was a teep.>

<Let’s hope so.>

<What?>

<Because Clean doesn’t have that weakness.>

Iris let her admiration show. Al had foreseen all along that getting a teep inside Edgars Industries might be impossible. That was why he’d added his mundane to the Ace roster.

<Let’s hope it was worth it. Any luck getting me access to Somers? I’m hoping not to be on Mars for much longer.>

Iris hoped the same. She was missing her room in teeptown, and her cat.

<No joy from Sigma so far. They’re being as obstructive as possible.>

<You amaze me.>

<I tried saying you need her memories for the Ace project, but they said they already gave us all the reports when you were conditioning Clean. I tried saying you want to see if your local knowledge of the station picks up stuff they missed. That one got me all the way to Karla Wolf in person.>

<But?>

<She said Sigma never miss anything.>

<She would. OK, well, we know Somers is healthy and where to look for her. Maybe scanning her can -- >

A flare of panic dazzled the mind-link and knocked Iris off her feet, She made a show of inspecting her knee where the belt had scuffed it raw before the emergency stop kicked in. She was looking around for Al, but not with her eyes.

<Sorry,> he sent, as his projection reappeared.

He was still radiating panic, but she could now see it was stamped with Drake’s mental signature. Al’s own mind showed alarm and surprise, but both were under control.

<Big explosion somewhere in the dome here. No breach.>

<MHQ?>

<No. We weren’t the target. I can’t tell who was. I got psi fallout from several deaths -- all mundanes -- a lot of injuries and panic. Military personnel…> He paused, listening to something. <You’re right. A hotel with Earthforce officers is exactly what it feels like. Iris, I think Mars Resistance just hit the Red Planet.>

<Al, I was thinking barracks. Not hotels. Are you talking to someone else?>

<No.>

A lie!

<Please, Al! I’m a P11 and I’m linked into your mind right now.>

<Our security isn’t compromised. It’s… complicated. But I promise I’m alone.>

Both statements were true. But if the other was false…

<You can do logic, can’t you? I’m alone but I was talking to someone. Therefore, I was talking to someone who isn’t here. Not entirely rational, I grant you, but not a security issue.>

<Al, your sanity _is_ a security issue. This had better be some of Drake’s wreckage. Clear it out before anyone else sees.>.

<Of course. You’re right. I was working deep in Frank’s mind, right down in the trauma damage.>

<I noticed.>

<I installed the cascade we talked about. That blast will have set it off like a rocket! It’s a lot sooner than planned, but we can adapt. Just be sure to stay clear of both of them, but don’t go too quiet. Be somewhere that will give you a solid alibi. And finish that run.>

This shouldn’t have happened while they were still on Mars to fall in the radius of suspicion. Now Loyalty and Morale would be all over it. All over them. She kept her eyes on her sore leg while her mind gave him the look he deserved.

<Al, I’ve been doing this almost as long as you have. I know how to keep my nose clean.>

<I know. We’ll need to get together and do some editing.>

Once they knew who was dead and what was left to scan.

<Right,> she sent. <It’ll take a while to send an investigation team from Geneva. You stay put. I’ll come to the dome.>

<Sure.>

<And get some rest, Al. I don’t want you working in my head while you’ve got crazy shit happening in yours.>

<Consider my crazy shit dealt with. Oh, and Iris, before the news breaks, send a message to Karla at Sigma. Thank her for her assistance and tell her I look forward to seeing her when I stop by to scan Ms. Somers. With any luck, her successor will find it unopened in her inbox.>

**Babylon 5**

The doorbell bleeped. The mind outside was known to her but not familiar enough to identify until she opened the door to reveal Kat, the smuggler. She was holding a packing cannister.

“Don’t tell me you’re running a courier service now.”

“Another special delivery. Someone on Earth must really like you, Commander.”

“OK, thanks. Put it on the counter there.”

She was about to add “and leave me in peace,” but Kat had recently made her first run for them under the new arrangement and she wished she could get her to speak up at meetings and encourage more of the others to follow suit.

“I’d invite you in, but I have a ton of paperwork. How about I put some credits on a bar tab so you can buy a drink for everyone who’s signed up so far? Including yourself and your crew of course.”

“Thanks. Hey, maybe look by later, after the paperwork? We’ll buy you one back so we can say we’ve been hanging with a celebrity. Maybe these packages are fan mail. You’re quite a hit on that new Voice of the Revolution.”

“Resistance. And I doubt that. Thanks for the invitation, but don’t count on me. Things are pretty hectic.”

“Sure. I know. Give me a call sometime, when you want to unwind. I’m in Brown Sector.”

“I can find you.”

Wait. The Lumati, Marcus, Bester, and now Kat. Had Michael spiked her thermal unit with his collection of alien aphrodisiacs?

“Maybe when things are quieter, sometime.”

“Cool. Viva la revolución!”

**Psi Corps Mars HQ, Dome One**

He didn’t sense Iris until she was almost at his door.

_< You’re distracted, love. Worrying about investigators?>_

<Just tired. Iris and I can outwit a couple of Loyalty and Morale goons.>

_< What about Frank and Karla?>_

<With luck, there’s nothing left worth scanning.>

_< Ha!>_

<You’re so alive when you’re angry.> (A stab of hopeless longing that he didn’t have time for.) <I need you to disappear while Iris is in my mind.>

 _< Be careful!>_ she sent. _< Keep your mind safe for me to come home to!>_

Shaking his head, he turned to let Iris in. She’d really think he was losing it if she had to knock to get his attention.

“Hi, boss,” she said, pushing a carton at him. “I brought cake.”

He dumped it on the desk, caught her in his arms. She wriggled closer and kissed him on the mouth.

“Oh God, Al!” she gasped when they broke for air. “It’s been so long!”

He tugged her jacket open and they stumbled towards the bed, kicking off shoes and shedding clothing on their way.

“Wait!” He fended her with the flat of his hand as she was about to straddle him. “Let’s get some privacy.”

She let him up, trailing fingertips along his spine while he disabled with the monitor cam. Then she picked her shirt off the floor, flung herself into his work chair, tugging her skirt down over her thighs.

<Did you kill the sound too?>

“All of it,” he assured her, zipping his pants.

Interfering with monitor cams was strictly forbidden, of course, but the Mother and Father would overlook occasional spontaneous recording failures if the context was harmless and the participants had good loyalty ratings. Barring some new emergency, they should be good for a few hours entirely to themselves.

First, he located Iris’ hazardous memories -- helping him slip away to Babylon 5, planning to bring down the Shadow conspiracy, knowing he’d caused Frank to kill Karla Wolf. That part was easy because she was willing and able to cooperate. Working together, they scratched what they both imagined as chalk marks on cave walls. Then they sealed the marked areas behind floods and rockfalls. That was harder; psychic remodeling hurt. Finally, he went around once more on his own, checking the seals and making sure no evidence of interference showed on the outside. Iris couldn’t completely suppress her mind’s instinctive response, so he had to block a few flailing counterattacks while he smoothed the rough edges, wove in loose ends, and, where nothing else would work, inserted fake memories to cover the gaps.

Working so deep was unpleasant for both of them, but he had to stay long enough to set up a mechanism to restore the memories later. (Not the one of him talking with Carolyn’s’ ghost. He let that plummet into the darkness.) Soon, her last knowledge of their cover-up hung in the plughole shaft, suspended by a single red cord above the whirling currents. She wouldn't be asked to open this deep coil of her mind to an official scan. It ran too deep below her conscious thoughts, a maelstrom of impulses and emotions not even a highly trained telepath could control. A good P12 could force entry, but at the cost of massive psi damage to Iris, and possibly to themselves. Nobody would order that while she was considered loyal and useful.

Iris was pale but managed a thin smile as he brought her a glass of water and some cake. Then they changed places and she did the same for him.

“Neat work,” he said when water and cake had restored him. “Ready to finish?”

She nodded. They linked hands, skin to skin. He snipped that last connection, looped the cut cord around a memory that protruded like a tree root near the top of the plughole (something with Grins and the smell of air-freshener -- he didn’t look closely). He knocked her out just long enough to bury the cord in the clay. No-one would find that now, not even Iris, not until she felt truly safe. He'd set things up so that would happen next time the two of them made close skin contact, which they were going to crave as soon as they were sure they’d been cleared of suspicion.

She blinked, focused. “Wow, Al. That was… intense.

He grinned. “We should do that again soon. Maybe when this investigation is over?”

“It’s a date!”

He closed the door behind her but didn’t uncover the monitor. He still had to bury his own memory of the edits. And there were other memories that he couldn’t let Iris help with. 

Locating and taping those solo was reasonably straightforward. Luckily, it was mostly the painful ones that needed to go. The machine screaming in Carolyn’s mind, the fleet of caskets drifting towards Epsilon Eridani, those he sealed away, along with every trace of his collaboration with Babylon 5. Memories of Carolyn at the TRC could stay, just minus his growing distrust of Clark and the inner circle. It took multiple attempts; he hadn’t anticipated how much it would hurt to lose the outline of the empty space she’d left inside him. The worst part was accepting Drake’s mindquake story. It took a lot of pacing and some punching the wall before he could bring himself bury the truth of his struggles to save her, his grief when she’d gone.

Now for the clever bit. The trick was to observe his own mind while keeping his awareness outside of it. It was an odd sensation of detachment-with-connection, a little like performing a deathbed scan on himself, except that the scanning mind would be the one to pass out of existence while the scanned one survived.

He looked down at his own face. (Blood trickled where he’d bitten his lip -- he’d have to clean that up before anyone saw.) He coiled up the cord to the last memories, pictured a jump point, the orange glow as it opened. He flung the coiled cord. The small part of him that still knew why he was doing this caught hold of the cord and was pulled through the vortex.

The jump point closed. The rest of his awareness returned to his body, dragged itself to the bunk and slept with a blissfully clear conscience.


	5. Action and Reaction

_Some people get what they deserve._

**Psi Corps Mars HQ, Dome One**

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bester! I’ll leave you in here to rest and freshen up. Juice and cookies are on the table, shower through the door there, and your things are on the chair. Thank you again for your cooperation.”

He wasn’t ready to meet the L&M man’s eyes, or his mind, so he looked round the recovery room. He saw the familiar black uniform, folded square, a comforting gleam from the badge on top.

“I’m still a psi cop?”

“Of course. We had to go in hard due to the nature of the investigation, not because we found anything questionable. Your work ethic is exemplary, and your loyalty scores are outstanding. But you know that.”

“It’s nice to have objective validation.”

“Well, reassurance is one of the benefits of a truly thorough scan.”

“Absolutely. I’ve always said we should make more frequent use of them.”

He made eye-contact now, resisting the urge to grin. It was a joy to have his blocks back and this bastard on the outside where he could lie to him.

Once he was alone, he eased himself off the gurney and took stock. The face in the mirror showed about three days’ worth of beard. The sore spots on his scalp looked like electrode burns. Along with a pounding headache and a lot of unpleasant memories, it all confirmed that the Loyalty and Morale team had indeed been “truly thorough”.

After such an ordeal, being allowed back to normal life felt like getting away with something. Of course, a loyal Corps member had nothing to fear from a scan other than the discomfort. Nervousness was a normal reaction, as was the surge of relief he was experiencing. Textbook psychology.

“Welcome home, Al. You look as rough as I feel!”

“You look great, Iris.” He let her see it was true.

“Yeah, well 24 hours downtime helps -- that and heavy make-up.”

She put an arm around him and ushered him in to sit on her bunk. It wasn’t a long walk from the interrogation block to her quarters, but he was happy to get off his feet. He pulled her down beside him and they leaned on each other, letting the edges of their minds overlap to soothe the battering they’d both taken.

“They really went in tough this time, huh, Al?”

“They did.”

“That hotel bomb caught Intelligence napping, and two teeps from Clark’s inner circle killed each other out of the blue. You don’t have to be paranoid to start wondering if someone’s up to something.”

“Well, now they know we’re both in the clear. What else have they got?”

“The working hypothesis is that Drake’s combat trauma made him more unstable than anyone thought,” Iris told him. “On the cam footage, you can see something snap just at the point when he'd have sensed the emotional fallout from the Red Planet blast. A couple of teeps he jostled at the transit station picked up images of explosions and burning flesh. Then he bursts into Karla’s office and goes for her like she’s a Minbari or a Dilgar or something.”

“Poor bastard. He thought he had those war memories under control.”

“Seems he’d been pulling rank to avoid medical checks. There’ll be an investigation into that too.”

Bester winced. _No medics_ , that was what Frank had made him promise. He could still feel where the investigator had rooted it out. He’d be getting a minor reprimand in due course, probably be docked a few hours of leave.

Iris patted his arm and said, “I'm sorry. Frank must have been a hell of a threat in his day.”

“One of the best. I didn’t know if he still had it though.”

She leaned close, wide-eyed.

“They say that when the pathologist opened Karla’s skull, what was left of her brain poured out like tomato soup.”

“Then I guess he still had it. Good old Frank."

Iris gave his arm a squeeze.

Neither of them bothered to feign sorrow over Karla's death. She'd never been easy to like, and her years running Sigma had made her very easy to fear.

"They’ll be wanting to close the case now," he reflected out loud, "and get everyone back to work. Ratna will be happy to take over Sigma. I’ll be running Ret and Ree -- temporarily, I hope. I don't want to be based on Mars.”

“You’ll run nothing until you’ve had your downtime. Loyalty and Morale kept you for almost four days. That gets you 48 hours rest, minimum. Promise me you won’t waive it.”

“I promise. Ret and Ree can get by without a Major for another day or so.”

“Good.”

She turned and took his hands, skin on skin. He’d committed another minor violation walking here without gloves.

He felt her mind plummet as though a sinkhole had opened beneath them, was pulled in after her before he could disengage. Loose rock and slippery clay broke their fall, but they were still sliding, keeping their minds connected as they scrabbled for something solid. There! Red cords. They clung on, feet dangling into nothing, sounds of churning water from the darkness below. They inched their way along the cords until –

<Oh!>

<That’s -->

< \-- going to need some privacy.>

Iris shoved him back onto the bunk.

“We’re alive, Al! Let’s feel alive!”

She kissed him hard on the mouth. He kissed her back and did nothing at all about the monitor. Let it wait. This felt good.

But she was already standing on her desk to prise open the ceiling light.

“I got it. Audio too. It worked, Al! We fooled them.”

<We did.>

“It worked!”

“Of course. I told you.”

He was grinning so wide it hurt his scalp burns.

“Have you done this before?”

“I think so. That wasn’t my first deep scan, and I obviously don’t keep dangerous memories that I have no practical use for.”

That wasn’t strictly true. Riffling through the trove they’d just regained, he could see a few that it would have been sensible to dump -- Director Johnston, for one. It seemed he’d held on for sentimental reasons.

“You’re saying even you don’t know exactly what you might be guilty of!”

“Need to know basis. Safest all round.”

“I don’t know how you live in that mind of yours. I’d go mad.”

“Driving visitors to insanity is a highly effective defense.”

Iris didn’t know he'd killed Johnston. How could she have missed that when she'd helped with his memory edits? Or had it been buried long before and unearthed only now? He honestly wasn’t sure. He’d have to think about it carefully later. Right now, he just wanted to laugh and hold her.

<If only we were compatible…>

<Near-mind-wipe experiences make you horny, huh?>

“Sorry, Iris. My blocks are frazzled. That was supposed to stay on the inside.”

“Don’t worry. I feel the same.”

She didn’t mean frazzled blocks. Her mind was streaming desire like the field from a magnet.

“So you do. I didn’t think I was your type.”

“S’true. I like tall blondes with pert tits. You like rebels and jailbait." She sighed. Grinned. "But I need to let off steam and you’re the only person who can know why. So, it’s either go down to the bar and be dangerously indiscreet or stay here and use a bit of ingenuity. If you’re up for it, I’m sure we can manage.”

They managed.

Afterwards, when she was sleepy enough that she might not remember, he whispered, “Thank you. I think it’s been a long time.”

He couldn’t remember making love since Carolyn had died, and yet he had a sense of something more recent -- a feeling of closeness to… _someone?_

Mental fuzziness was to be expected in the days after a deep scan. He was too sleepy to try to clear it up now. Maybe he’d take a proper look once he’d delivered the good news about Talia Winters to Babylon 5.

**Babylon 5**

The package looked just like the previous one. It didn’t seem worth repeating all the scanning and testing rigmarole. She slit the outer wrap and popped the canister lid to reveal a bottle of vodka (Russian) and a box of chocolates (Swiss). Nice.

But… Kat, Marcus, and now Bester. What the hell had she done to the universe? At least Bester’s interest hadn't been sparked by her new role as a media star, but if the next canister was lace panties, she’d be sending it right back with detailed instructions and diagrams for where he could put them. 

There was another damn Psi Corps compliments card. Of course there was. With another handwritten note.

_I am pleased to confirm that our records conclusively rule out the scenario that concerned you most. Further details on my next visit. It’s always a pleasure working with you. Yours, AB._

She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Whatever they’d done to Talia, at least she wasn’t trapped in a Shadow ship. That was something. That was a lot.

On impulse, she grabbed the bottle and chocolates. She could think of only one person on the station who might understand.

**Psi Corps Mars HQ, Dome One**

Bester hit the floor rolling into a defensive crouch, combat blocks up, reaching to locate the mind behind the threat. His returning senses revealed no attack, no bombardment.

Iris had wrapped a robe around herself and was angling the comms screen to keep most of the room out of its view. A call, not a bombardment. Thanks for the memories, Frank. He tried to locate some clothes he could reach while keeping out of sight.

“Sorry for waking you, Ms Rzhevskaya, but I have an urgent call from Earthdome. The Alien Liaison Primary. For Mr. Bester. Um… systems say he’s with you?”

“Yes. Yes, he is. He dropped by for a chat after his scan. He… fell asleep and I didn’t like to wake him.”

She glanced his way. <You OK for this?>

He wriggled into pants and shirt, stood up. “I’m ready.”

“I’ve had Mr. Ashwell on hold for a while now. He’s not happy.” The face on the screen was grinning from ear to ear. “Putting it through now.”

“Tracked you down you at last, Mr. Bester! Living up to your reputation, I see.”

“I do have some downtime due after my scan, sir.”

“Of course! And well deserved. Though you may want to waive it once you know why I’m calling. Tell your friend to be somewhere else. This conversation is on a need to know basis.”

“Sir, this is Iris Rzhevskaya, my aide. She probably needs to know.”

“In that case, Ms Rzhevskaya, sit down and take notes so your boss doesn’t have to repeat all this later. Now, Mr. Bester, how would you like a promotion?”

“Thank you, sir. Of course, I’ll be honored to keep Ret and Ree running until you can appoint a permanent Major. But you should know there’s a limit to how much time I can spend on Mars without neglecting my other --”

“Yes, yes. Black Omega, Off-World Ops, Blackjack, Ace... I have your file in front of me. Don't worry. You’ll still be able to zip round the galaxy. We’re not sticking you with Mars Ret and Ree. We want you to take charge of Sigma.”

“Sigma?”

“It’s a department with offices at Syria Planum, Dome One, and Geneva. You may have come across it.” Ashwell’s sarcasm wasn’t so much deadpan as deadweight. “Mostly covert intelligence and experimental tech.”

“Yes sir, I’m aware of the department. But I assumed that Ratna would be stepping into Karla’s shoes.”

“You assumed wrong.”

Ashwell paused, his expression softened from stern to wry.

“Alright, Mr. Bester, you must have noticed you were being kept at arm’s length from the top-level discussions.”

Bester thanked his stars this conversation was happening through a screen.

“The Corps is Mother, the Corps is Father.”

“Quite. There have been a few question marks about your loyalty -- purely circumstantial -- but we have to err on the side of precaution.”

“Of course.”

“The investigation into poor Frank and Karla’s deaths has been a game-changer. Your scan findings were exemplary. Ms Rzhevskaya’s too. On that basis, you’re the only possible candidate for the Sigma job.”

So. They’d reached the point where only a doctored mind could meet the inner circle’s loyalty criteria. He probably should have seen that coming.

“The Corps needs your abilities, Al. May I call you Al? Sigma was involved in many vital projects, important to the president as well as the Family. We need someone who can get up to speed fast and push things back on schedule after this, um… _fracas_.”

“I can start as soon as you can clear me for access to Sigma's records.”

Iris was radiating unholy glee. She’d better not be letting any of that reach her face.

“Good man. But the problem is what’s _not_ in the records. Secrecy was Karla Wolf’s superpower, but what’s becoming apparent is how much she relied on her memory. Her files on the most sensitive projects are cryptic or non-existent, and her senior staff were mostly kept in the dark. After the recent incident, Ms. Wolf's memories are not recoverable.”

“Necroscan?” 

He knew the answer but wanted to hear Ashwell confirm it.

“Nothing to scan. Frank knew his business”

<Tomato soup!> Iris was gloating. He couldn’t blame her.

“Did someone scan Frank?”

That had always been the weak point in the plan. If there was enough brain activity and an investigator who knew what they were doing.

“No use. Karla saw to that.”

“She had time to retaliate?”

“Not mentally, but she pulled her PPG. Firing it was probably postmortem reflex. Two body shots, close range. One took out his throat.”

“Messy.”

“But quick.”

Good old Frank! He’d eliminated two key Shadow allies and managed to destroy all trace of his own programming as well.

“So, the key to your new department’s most important work has been flushed down the path lab sluice. We’re counting on you to recover and rebuild. As fast as possible.”

“I can be on a transit to Syria Planum in ten minutes.”

“Get a few hours rest first, while your new clearances go through. Proper sleep, mind. You’ll be more effective.”

His gazed flicked to Iris and back.

“By the way, Ms Rzhevskaya, there appears to be a technical fault in your room monitor. Look into it please.”

The efficiency of Iris' salute was somewhat undermined by her rumpled robe.

”And thank you, Al. You’re a good psi cop. We should have given you a bigger role long ago.”

“I’m just happy to be useful, sir.”

“Please. Call me Doug. I look forward to working more closely.”

“So do I,” said Bester, closing the comm and dropping onto the bunk to catch his breath.

Iris fixed the monitor. They provided some mindless voice chat for it to record while the real conversation happened in psi-space.

<Was that for real?> she sent.

He chuckled, only in their minds.

<Ashwell just gave us permission -- no, Ashewell just _ordered_ us -- to dig through Sigma’s vaults. And it's only a matter of time before you'll be reporting to him alone in an unmonitored room.>

He brushed his teeth diligently to keep from grinning as he replied.

<You left out unrestricted access to Talia Winters’ memories, if they still exist. I’ll start there while you find out what else Sigma’s been working on.>.

<Sure. Plenty to keep us both busy.>

She didn’t send the rest of the thought, but he could taste it: she was afraid he might rush into a suicide mission to take out Ashwell.

<No more risks for a while,> he promised. <Let’s make the most of this pay-off before we push our luck again. And I’ll need another trip to Babylon 5.>

<Right. Absolutely nothing risky about going there!>

He ignored the sarcasm.

<While I’m away, I want you to get digging. Find out what Sigma's been up to and assess its potential for the Future. This is our opportunity to promote anything that could help.>

<Knowing Sigma, some of it will be heading us _away_ from the Future.>

<Then you know what to do.>

<Path lab sluice.>

<Tomato soup.>

“Poor Karla. She devoted her life to covert projects. It’s terrible to think how much of that could be lost by her sudden death.”

“Terrible, yes.” He couldn’t hope to match the sincerity of sorrow and concern on Iris’ face, so he settled for steely and resolved. “We’ll do everything we can to limit the damage. You can start by booking me that meeting with Ms. Winters.”

“You mean Ms. Somers.”

“Yes, of course. Karla told me I should scan her before I go to Babylon 5. She seemed to think it was very important.”

"Then I'll get onto it right away."

His back was turned to the monitor. He allowed himself a real smile.

The End

_To be continued (one day) in Headwaters 4, Equal and Opposite, where Bester returns to Babylon 5._


End file.
